"The Attachment"

michaelrigg.com
Based on the game "Brothers in Arms: Hell's Highway" by Ubisoft and Gearbox Software
Images from in-game cutscenes, Photoshop treatment by Michael Rigg
Draft 1, 10/12/08

This story takes place near the beginning of the game and parallels the activity leading up to the allied liberation of Eindhoven in World War II. This story is MATURE for themes of war, violent subject matter, and language. Proper discretion is advised.

I would have laughed if I wasn't about to die.

It just struck me that the puke on the deck between my boots was the same olive drab as my uniform. Pea soup and "shit on a shingle." I wondered if that's what the Army used for dye.

"Cherry!" That was Harker, the corporal from my squad. He usually only spoke one or two words at a time and, towards me, they were always some kind of insult.

"Christ, Doder, keep your shit together, will you? You can't shoot Germans if you're puking all over yourself!" Louis Carbero shouted over the air rush inside the glider. He was the only one in the squad who actually called me by my name. Yeah. Nice.

I'm Charlie Doder, 101st Airborne rifleman from Homer, Indiana. Today is September 17, 1944. My first, and maybe last, day of combat. They called it Operation Market Garden.

We were dropping into Holland by glider after a long haul behind the same C-47s that deployed a lot of these guys behind German lines when this whole mess began back on H-Hour, D-Day.

I wasn't there in the beginning. I'm a replacement. An attachment. I'm a new guy nobody wants to be friends with. You don't want to get friendly with a replacement for two reasons. One, they're not worth the G.I. gear they're wearing -- or the Airborne patch on their sleeve -- because they haven't seen the shit the others saw from Day One. And that means, two, that they don't know beans enough to stay alive for more than five minutes. Who wants to be friends with a dead guy?

I'll take the slander of the former, thanks. I'd rather not die so far from home without a single friend in Europe to collect my dog tag.

So, I keep my mouth shut, I try to remember what Sergeant Mitchell taught me back in basic, and I keep telling myself not to flinch with every explosive rifle crack. I tell myself to remember to kill the German before he kills me, to use my bayonet up close so I conserve ammunition, and to always keep an extra pair of socks on hand no matter what. Also, to remember where my C.O. is, where my squad leader is, and where the corpsman is at all times.

Bases covered. Lieutenant Huxley was on another glider, Sergeant Noland was up front with Corporal Hughes in the pilot and co-pilot seats, and Bravo company hadn't had a medic since the rendezvous behind Omaha. And, like I said, was back home in Basic while that was going on.

The glider ride was peaceful. Only the clanking of the chains holding our jeep, the coughs and muttered comments of our squad, and the thumping shunts of wind against the wood and canvas fuselage found my ears. We had a good fifteen minutes of coasting before we touched down, so I had time to reflect.

When I arrived at Camp Hollister just ten days ago in England, I had freshly shined boots, new canvas-smelling gear, a sharp uniform, and an AIRBORNE patch that blazed in the sun. Unlike the company I was linking up with, my helmet didn't sport a trademark white diamond to designate my D-Day battalion. I was just plain G.I., a future ghost, a walking statistic, or -- as I quickly became known --

"Dipshit!" Corporal "Heymaker" Hughes called. I heard he was a boxer from Brooklyn before the war. Looked like one. Tough like a sergeant and on the fast track to his next stripe, he came up to me with a big chip already on his shoulder. "Where the hell were you!? You were supposed to report at zero-eight-thirty."

I struggled to shoulder my gear, tuck my duffel under an arm, and peel back my sleeve to check my watch. Didn't matter.

"It is now zero-eight-thirty-two. The man in the foxhole next to you could die in two minutes. Remember that!"

"Yessir."

"You don't sir me, doper, I'm a corporal." He waved an arm toward a row of large canvas huts. "Noland's that way. Go ask him where to unpack your frillies."

"Noland?"

"Our sergeant. Damn green dopey-ass dipshit." That last part was muttered under Corporal Hughes' breath, but I knew the cadence.

Finding the rest of my squad was easy. They found me. I guess they'd been expecting me.

"So you're Riley's replacement?" one said. "Little scrawny, ain't he," said another. They made me feel right at home, if home was a used car lot. Nobody spoke directly to me. They just kicked my tires, hissed or huffed at me. Sometimes they spoke at me.

"Doder, right?" Noland was looking over what I assumed were my orders as he emerged from a tent. His stripes were new. His uniform wasn't. Neither was the bandage on his neck. I guess I let these guys talk me down because I looked up to them. They were heroes. Word traveled fast from the states to here.

Still speaking to the paper, Noland said, "Doder, Doder. . . . Here it is. I'm putting you on the assault team with Hughes, clear? Good. Go."

And that was it. Clear? Good. Go. Gone. I never felt so far from home, so lonely. I felt guilty too. I looked around the camp and saw distant looks in all the soldiers' eyes. They had all seen horrors I couldn't imagine just within the past three months. Those who weren't joking with each other to pass the time were engaged in some form of P.T. or latrine duty, or getting chewed by a superior, were just staring, their expressions lifeless and gray as the sky.

Later I got nothing but hard looks from Hughes and a dismal, "You're gonna get us killed if you screw up," from Private Carbero. My buddy. My partner. My foxhole friend, who then added, "Just stay the fuck away from me," right before he tossed my duffel out into the mud. "Sleep somewhere else!"

Even though I did everything right, did everything by U.S. Army regulations, it still didn't seem good enough for Corporal Hughes and the other guys on my team. My practice jumps were sloppy, my leg bag wasn't properly secured, my sidearm was too much useless weight. I looked left instead of right, my helmet wasn't fastened, my helmet was fastened too tight. It didn't end.

I couldn't argue with them. Army regulations weren't here on D-Day, these guys were. So, I swallowed and nodded and took everything in stride. Then September 17 hit and the news that our squads were dropping in gliders rather than jumping out of planes.

"That should be easier," Carbero told Hughes.

"Yeah," Hughes replied, "We'll all be together when we die instead spread all over the damn countryside."

He was mostly right.

As the glider coasted closer to the rolling green hills and patchwork farmland north of Eindhoven, Sergeant Noland stood up. I remember how he looked silhouetted against the daylight streaming in through the canopy. The memory was vivid because it struck me funny that he'd stand as we were about to --

I'll never forget the two sounds that followed -- that stayed with me my whole life.

The tree trunks smacked the canopy hard enough to obliterate the Plexiglas shield and the two men up front. The crash was like a thrashing metallic and thumping roar in my ears. The whole front section of the glider -- designed to open like a clam shell so you can just drive out in the jeep -- peeled open. Instinctively, I tucked down and clutched the sides of my head with my fingers tucked under my helmet. I remembered tasting bark and greenery. And then blood.

The glider rocked to the side, flipped up, started ripping apart, wings shearing off.

The jeep broke free of its chains and performed an impossible back flip in the cramped glider cabin. A collective shriek, the screams of a few of the men, pierced my ears and echoed against my own. A boot kicked my jaw. A rifle butt thumped my helmet. I eventually blacked out amidst the spinning torrent. The whole thing must've lasted a second.

I didn't know how long I was out. But some part of me -- some distant place that recalled my training -- woke me mumbling my name, rank and serial number. Something hot and sticky was all over the right side of my face. The throbbing ache under my helmet on that side told me I probably had one helluva gash there.

Slowly rolling to my side, I unfastened my helmet and let it fall off. The right side of the helmet sported a long silver scratch running through a deep dent that would have been my head if not for the olive pot. I felt my scalp. My hand was damp with sweat and nothing more. My hand came away clean.

Then where was all this blood--?

I turned and saw a body next to me. I didn't know who it was because there was no face. Probably PFC Porter. Maybe Schoon. I couldn't tell.

"Oh, God." I turned face-down and heaved what hadn't already come up on the trip. "Medic!" I rasped into the ground before realizing none would come.

Welcome to the Netherlands.

My legs were shaky, but at least they weren't broken or severed. I stood slowly, my ears ringing, and surveyed the area. The glider was a pile of junk. Only the tail -- and one wing in a nearby field -- were definable. Everything else was twisted wood, metal, and canvas. Bodies lay everywhere.

None of them moved.

"Carbero? . . . Hughes? . . . Sergeant Noland!?" I stumbled in circles, stepped from body to body, rolling them over, touching their necks or chests, staring into their unblinking eyes. Dead. They were all dead.

I was about to call out again, to scream in fear and frustration, when another voice found me first.

"Ich denke, dass das hier ist. Dieser Weg."

Oh, God. I whirled on a heel and took in more of the surroundings. My brain didn't have a second to admire the windmills softly turning in the distance. The woods into which we crashed would soon be teaming with Hitler's henchmen. I could hear one of them as close as the thrumming of my own heartbeat in my ears.

I glanced around for a weapon. There were dozens of them scattered at my feet, some in various pieces, but fear made sure I couldn't tell the difference between an M1 Gerand and a wiper blade from the jeep. I turned and bolted for the woods, diving just as I crossed into shadow, then belly-crawled behind a berm.

"Das Flugzeug brach hier zusammen. Ausgedehnt und suchen nach Überlebenden!"

I held my breath as I heard the Germans rummag ing and periodically calling out something of interest to one another. I closed my eyes and prayed they wouldn't find anyone alive. The sound of an execution shot from a Luger would have sealed my fate. I could imagine myself screaming in guilty anguish before getting cut down by gunfire.

As slowly as I could, and still unarmed, I crawled toward a mossy notch in the sweet-smelli ng earth and peered out toward the crash site.

"Keine Überlebenden," said a tall thin one with a shrug. He held his MP-40 machine gun loosely at his waist.

"Wie können wir sicher sein?" came another. This one held his MP-40 at the ready and trained at the motionless G.I.s at his feet.

"Können wir nicht Zeit suchend nach Andenken vergeuden . . . . Gehen wir." That from a third. He and the fourth German kept their weapons slung, the silent fourth picking up an American Thompson submachine gun and slinging the souvenir over his other arm.

I watched as they moved toward the field where we should have landed. They took their time and seemed a little too relaxed for an enemy who had just witnessed dozens of gliders coming down in their neck of the woods. Too relaxed.

Unless . . . .

Oh, God. I closed my eyes and prayed. Not only did we crash. We crashed too far to the south. We were behind German lines. "Oh, God. Oh, no."

I gave the Germans a few extra minutes -- maybe more like an hour -- before crawling to a crouch and moving back to the crash site. This time I spotted an M1 right away. I grabbed it, wiped at the sticky crimson smear on the stock, and shouldered an ammo belt. Then I took a moment to pray as I collected one last thing from each man. Helmetless with blazing blond hair, I moved toward the north, staying low and keeping to cover whenever possible.

The same way my German friends had gone.

The next hour had me diving behind shrubs, into ditches, and behind low garden walls near farmhouses or windmills as unexpected German patrols -- and a massive 88 anti-aircraft gun pulled behind a half-track -- rolled by me. I made note of all of these, watched as long as I could, and made mental notes next to a prayer of safety so I could pass this intel along to someone who could use it.

The German activity was getting thicker the farther north I moved. I even started hearing the distant thump-thump-thump of the 88s and the firecracker popping of distant gunfire. So, I high-tailed it to a nearby barn and hid inside. The barn was small and devoid of animals. Maybe they had run off, or maybe the Germans already came through and killed them all. Or, maybe the locals let them all go. As it was, the area was only large enough to keep three horses or maybe six sheep. The large room smelled of damp straw and wool. Hay was spread around the dirt floor and an array of farming tools hung on the wall near the wide barn doors. I found a bucket with water, a large pair of sheers, and a burlap sack filled with fluffy gray and white-brown shearings. Crawling into the second stall, I crouched and held my rifle at the ready.

It wasn't long -- maybe only ten minutes -- before shuffling footsteps found me. If they were German they had to have seen me come in here. I raised my M-1 and leveled it at the corner of the stall opening. The steps came closer. They were light but cautious. Whoever it was --

"Wie bent u?" It was a boy. A kid. I lowered my rifle but still kept it ready.

"Hallo?" This time the kid was just around the corner, just a few feet from me. If I moved I'd make noise and scare him. If I didn't, he'd get scared as soon as he saw me anyway.

Either way, this was going to end with a scream -- and, I'm sure rouse German suspicions.

Too late. He appeared at the corner of the stall. He couldn't be no more than seven or eigh t. He wore a riding cap and a gray jacket. A yellow armband hung loose around his left arm. Dutch resistance. Damn, but this kid was so young!

And the gun in his hands was trembling.

"Easy, kid," I called back as softly as I could. It didn't matter. Before I could identify myself as American, the kid whirled on a heel and squeezed off a shot. I felt the bullet punch me in the right shoulder. It was a small gun, probably just a .22, maybe a .38, but the loud CRACK! and lead thud were enough to half-spin me and knock me down.

"Papa! Papa! K dispozici jsou Němci ve stodole!" And like that he was gone.

And so was I.

I woke as a burning pain tore through my arm and neck like lightning, but I struggled slowly to my feet, the morning weighing on me like a Sherman tank. Aches and pains from the glider crash came to life with the bullet wound, which didn't look that bad. I was embarrassed that it knocked me down mo re than anything. I was able to check it out after tearing open the sleeve above the bloodied American flag sewn there.

Looked like a bad gash. I knew I'd need some stitching up, but there wasn't much hope for --

"You are American?" The voice was heavily accented and came from a man who came in the way the boy had gone. I turned and gave him a weak look. I nodded.

"My son, I --. Oh, I am sorry." He wore a gray hat and jacket, and a yellow resistance armband around his arm . . . .

Then there were two of him. Four. Why was the barn tilting that way? Why is . . . ?

I came to some time later -- I have no idea how long it was -- lying on my back in the barn. It looked like the same barn as barn ceilings go. Straining to sit up I felt a hand on my chest.

"Sit. I am almost finish."

I looked over to my shoulder and watched as the local man stitched closed the gash there. I smelled iodine and alcohol and -- where's my rifle!?

Tearing out the last stitch as I struggled to my feet --.

"Don't. You must not. You'll hurt--"

-- I looked around frantically. I imagined Nazis charging into the barn, machine guns blazing, cutting me and the kindly Dutch man down in a crackling instant. But that didn't happen. My shoulders drooped as I noticed my M1 and pack resting against a stall door. Easing back to the floor, my head pounding, I asked the man, "What's your name?"

"My name is Nicholas. I was expecting a Sergeant Baker. You are not him?"

I shook my head and winced as the old man picked up his sewing. He splashed more iodine on the wound. "I'm just a private. Name's Doder, sir. Charlie Doder."

"My son is Peter. He ran off. I am afraid he is going to try to fight. He has my pistol I am afraid."

I watched the man work, but I said nothing about the boy.

I could tell by the intensity in his eyes, the cut of his jaw, that his worry about his son went deeper than a father's love. It went as deep as this war that tore up his country. It went as deeper than the German line cutting through this countryside.

The love for his son was as deep as his hatred of the Nazis. "Thank you," I said. And I meant it for more than just patching me up.

"It is okay. I wish to help." He cut the thread with a small pair of sewing scissors. Then he dabbed more alcohol. "This was lucky. The German who did this was a bad shot. Luck for you."

"Yeah," I smiled. "Lucky for me."

After adding to a map Nicholas was putting together for this Sergeant Baker, pointing out where I had seen the Germans by my glider, I thanked him with a brisk handshake, checked my rifle, and made my way back out into the sun, gratefully accepting a chunk of bread and cheese.

"May God go with you, Private Doder."

"Thank you, Nicholas. You too. I hope you find your boy." Then, to myself, but not before he takes down a few unsuspecting krauts with that old gun of yours.

I crossed a field of abandoned gliders. Supplies and troops had moved on. No sign of Germans. There were some jeep tracks, though, so I hefted my pack and followed them over the next rise.

Ducking into some low trees, I waited out the sound of heavy machinery coming my way. It didn't sound like jeeps and it -- thank God -- didn't sound like tanks, either. I held my breath and watched as not one, but two, German trucks trundled by. The first looked to be a fuel truck or perhaps a supply truck loaded down with ammunition for the 88s booming in the distance. As the second truck passed I held back a cough from the road dust clouding into the trees and brush around me. I don't think they would have heard me if I let the cough out, but I wasn't going to play that hunch as the second truck was a troop transport loaded with Hitler's finest.

So again I waited. No trucks came through in the next hour. No jeeps either. I crawled to my feet, winced at the pain in my arm and head, and made my way to the next line of trees and the windmill beyond. As near as I could tell, I was getting closer to allied activity. Gunfire was getting louder. The pop-pop-pops of M1s mingled with the closing rattle of German MP-40s and MG-42 nests.

So I stayed low. When I wasn't waiting, I stayed low. When I wasn't moving low, I waited. It went on like that forever. My knees ached. My head ached. My back and neck ached. My arm screamed. I topped the next rise -- keeping low --

And almost had my head taken off by a stray round. It's a strange sound if you've never heard it. It's almost like getting buzzed by a hornet, a hornet flying ahead of a small freight train.

Instinctively, I dropped to the ground and pulled my rifle up. I surveyed the field from my perch atop the crest, from what I could see through my iron sites and between tall blades of razor grass.

There was another barn about 200 yards ahead of me, some outer structures and low walls, some equipment and dead sheep. About 200 yards to the west of the barn I saw a crashed glider. Germans were closing on the men trapped there, trading fire and insults in their respective languages. Just below my position I saw the gray backs of three Germans setting up an MG nest, preparing to set and aim toward the G.I.s under the glider wing. With the suppression coming from the farmhouse farther to the west, those men didn't stand a chance once this MG opened up.

Do something, Dipshit!

It was Hughes' voice in my head. Even from beyond the grave, across this beautiful countryside torn by war, I could feel him cursing me out, charging me to action. I took aim on the German behind the MG and lowered the sites to compensate for kick and drift.

The German locked in his belt of brass-jacketed shells, pulled back the cocking slide.

I shifted my aim to the second German who was already spitting shots from his bolt-action K98.

The one on the MG-42 hunkered down, leveled his machine gun.

I glanced up to the G.I.s ducking and rolling away from the new angle of fire coming from the sniper with the K-98.

Now!!!

My eye on the site, down the barrel, crack!

The sniper flinched and rolled to the side as a red cloud popped between his shoulder blades. The MG gunner hadn't noticed my shot as I moved my sites toward him, but the third German in the trio had. He was reeling around with his MP-40, spraying absently in my direction. His shots were wide, low, some high. I had a few seconds -- maybe -- before he got lucky.

The first spray erupted from the MG. Ka-chuk-chuk-chuk-chuk-chuk!

Crack-Crack!

I couldn't take the chance. Popping off two quick shots I watched as one thunked uselessly against the low wall next to my target. The second found its mark and the MG fell silent. I couldn't see what I had done because a spray of dirt spit up from the ground in front of me and blinded me. The MP shooter found me!

God. Please. Please, take care of my family if I . . . .

Nothing. No thump of hot lead between my eyes. Not even close. In fact, the fire stopped.

I risked a look. The German with the MP-40 that was spotting me was now laying dead on his two friends, and three Americans had taken their place!

Hefting my Gerand, I scrambled to my feet and charged down the hill toward that wall, slamming myself into cover between a staff sergeant with a Thompson and a PFC fumbling with a box of grenades.

"What's this? Christmas come early?" This from a corporal with a Jersey accent. I thought he was talking about the grenade find, but he was looking at me.

"Who, me?" I called over the thunderous cracking of the weapons.

The sergeant took a dinger off the helmet and squatted down next to me. Over his shoulder, he called out, "Zan, can you take out that guy on the right? He's threatening to rub the R off my pot."

"Gotcha, Red."

That's when I noticed all these guys had scrubbed off their battalion suits in favor of white Rs and and the number 13. I could still make out some of the heart under the one called Zan's helmet net. "Ain't thirteen an unlucky number?"

The sergeant, Red, said, "Not for us, kid. Welcome to the Netherlands. I'm Hartsock. Friends call me Red. What's your story, stranger?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but the PFC interrupted. "Red!" He pointed across the field to the left. "It's Baker with Jasper and the MG!"

Red popped up over the wall and called out, "Baker!" and jabbed a finger toward the barn across from us. Then, ducking below the wall and yelling to his men to be heard over the crackling gunfire, "Zanovich, take Courtland south along this wall and try to set up a line on those krauts by those haystacks. Keep the fire off Baker, got it?"

"Got it, Red!"

"What about me?" I asked the sergeant.

"We cover them!"

So that's what I did. Whenever Red ducked below the wall to swap out a magazine, I'd pop up and fire off a few rounds toward the Nazis across from us. When I'd duck down to re-load, Red would pop up and cover me. Together, we managed to lay down a pretty solid wall of fire to cover Zanovich and Courtland as they made their way down to the next cover on our left. To our right, Baker and his machine gun crew were spattering the hell out of the Germans in front of us. More allies appeared in the field behind them.

That opened up a sudden opportunity.

Unable to take the fire from Baker's team, two of the Germans made the mistake of turning to dive for the next berm, overturned cart, or short garden wall. That's when I took my shot. Crack-Crack-Crack! One of my targets dropped quickly while the second took one high and spun to the ground.

A smack on the arm from Red: "Great shot, kid, you opened it up!"

And that's how the early part of the afternoon went. Sergeant Red Hartsock and I leapfrogged with Zanovich and Courtland while Sergeant Baker's MG team skirted around the far side. In less than thirty minutes the field was littered with surprised, and very dead, Germans.

My ears were still ringing when Zanovich and Courtland re-joined us.

"Where'd you say you were from, kid?" asked Zanovich.

"Homer, corporal. Homer, Indiana."

Courtland laughed. "I think he means here, junior."

I studied my boots for a second. "Glider crash. I was the only one out of it. I was a -- um, replacement."

Red brightened, pulled a torn paper map out of his jacket. To Zanovich he said, "Got this map from Baker just before rendezvous. Said an old man gave it to him."

"Nicholas?" I offered.

"That's him. How'd you know?"

"I helped him fill some of that in."

"Yeah," Red said, removing his helmet to reveal a bright thatch of hair that gave away his nickname. It matched the tone of freckles sprinkled across his nose and the scar running across one cheek. "I was going to show this to you, see if you could confirm these placements."

I looked at the map and pointed as Zanovich looked on. Courtland waved to another G.I. approaching from across the field. "Corrion! Did you see that!?"

"I ran into krauts here, here, and here," I pointed. "And there was an 88 on a truck on this road, moving toward Eindhoven, along with about 20 or so goose-steppers. There was another before that, eheading this way," I pointed.

All in all there were maybe twelve or thirteen German positions or movements I passed along to Staff Sergeant Hartsock.

Red met my gaze. "You're sure?"

"I was close enough to smell the bratwurst, sergeant."

Zanovich laughed. "I like 'im. Can we keep 'im?"

"What's your name, soldier?" Red asked.

"Doder, sir. Charlie Doder."

"Doder, hell," Courtland spat as he returned to us. Great. Here comes another replacement nickname. "More like 'Dodger' if he made it past all those kraut positions."

I smiled. That was better than dumbass or dipshit, or doper for that matter.

"Thank you." I didn't know what else to say.

That Sergeant Baker and his MG team approached from the other side of our wall. "Good job, Red."

"Don't thank me, Matt." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Thank our replacement, Dodger, here."

"That right?" Baker smiled at me, nodded a greeting, then turned to the loose collection of G.I.s wandering the field behind him. "Fall in!" Back to us: "Red, Mac's meeting us up on the road beyond that farmhouse to the south. Let's move out when you're packed and ready."

"Gotcha."

Red Hartsock replaced his helmet and shouldered his Thompson. Courtland and Zanovich fell into step next to him. All three stopped after a few steps and turned to me.

"Comin', Dodger?"

"You bet."

And that's how it happened. That's how I fell in with the famous Recon 13s and got my lucky nickname. After the tour that brought me to Hartsock and Baker, I was -- as Corporal Corrion put it -- "Baptized by fire." It didn't matter that I was a replacement anymore. I'd been adopted by this squad of firespitters. And they accepted me.

I ended up tagging along with Red Hartsock's squad until we reached the Son bridge that evening. After that I was assigned to a permanent home back among the diamonds and Lieutenant Huxley.

I didn't care that my new helmet didn't sport a white diamond. It had something much better. During the night while I was sleeping in the back of one of the jeeps, Baker's machine gunner, Jasper, painted up a helmet and left it for me.

And that wasn't all. "Anything else we can do for you, Charlie?" Red asked.

I handed him the bloody tags I'd kept in my pocket. I heard later that Jasper added the names HUGHES, CARBERO, PORTER, SCHOON and NOLAND to the hood of one of their jeeps.

I studied my new helmet before I strapped it on. The white "R" in quote marks was, as Jasper put it, "honorary." The name on the back was mine and proudly so.

The next time I went into battle, my squad mates called me by my new name.

"Dodger Dodged 13."

For more information about the fiction of Michael Rigg, or to contact the author, visit MichaelRigg.com